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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137396">drinking from a cup of broken ends (you sleep so sound)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave'>problematiquefave</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Churches &amp; Cathedrals, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The cathedral offers nothing. It's just him and flickering candles and God, perhaps, but probably not.</i>
</p><p>Francesco dreams.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Francesco de' Pazzi &amp; Guglielmo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi &amp; Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Yuletide 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>drinking from a cup of broken ends (you sleep so sound)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrulyangels/gifts">unrulyangels</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Francesco crashes into his bed the night following the banquet, the failed assassination attempt, and the argument over next steps. Not drunk enough for blackness, his dream has the tell-tale vividness of too much wine.</p><p>One moment he remembers the silk embrace of his sheets; in the next, he stands in the middle of the duomo. The marble shines. The golden altar gleams. Light streams through the stained-glass windows, filling the cathedral with bright colors. Too bright. Too much light.</p><p>And he’s all alone. No bishops, no friends, no enemies.</p><p>His dream self turns slowly, searching for something or someone. There is the cross, the empty pews, and the closed doors. He heads for the doors, footsteps echoing like horseshoes. They don’t budge, no matter how hard his muscles strain as he shakes, tugs, and pushes on them. A yell for help only echoes off the walls.</p><p>He shuts his eyes. If he thinks, those thoughts are lost to him when he wakes. They aren’t important when he opens his eyes and sees blood smattered across his hands, still gripping the door. They aren’t important when the weight of a blade is pressed against his chest.</p><p>His hands fall to his sides, uncomfortably sticky, and he takes a step backwards. A sharp pain tears through his side, burrowing straight to his gut. His step falters, his breath hitches, and Francesco reaches for his side. His fingers brush the torn threads of a hole cut straight through his garments. The tips of his fingers are pure red when he pulls them away, so thoroughly coated in blood. His blood?</p><p>Is it all his blood? Or is it someone else’s?</p><p>Lorenzo’s?</p><p>Giuliano’s?</p><p>But… Why would it be someone else’s?</p><p>A knife cuts across the side of his throat. His hand flies to cover the new wound, eyes darting wildly around the cathedral for a culprit. No one. Just him and flickering candles and God, perhaps, but probably not.</p><p>“What do you want? What do you mean?” he shouts. The dream doesn’t answer.</p><p>Francesco stumbles towards a pew. Not where he usually sits during mass, but the pew he’ll stand behind come Sunday, a knife at the ready for when Lorenzo and Giuliano take their spots.</p><p>“Is that it?” he asks the air. “This must be done. <em>It must</em>.”</p><p>The cathedral offers nothing. No one appears. The back of the pew digs into his shoulder blades as he clutches his throat, panting. The pain is like a fog encompassing him; he sucks it in with each breath and it presses against his insides – against his ribcage, his stomach, his skull. His eyes slide shut again.</p><p>The cathedral is darker when he opens them. Dull marble, burned out candles, and long shadows reaching for the angels painted on the ceiling of the duomo. His hand is clean when he pulls it from his neck. No blood. No pain. No weight of a blade, either. Francesco blinks and sits up straighter, scanning his surroundings for other changes, but nothing catches his eye.</p><p>Just as he pushes himself to his feet, facing the altar, the doors of the cathedral creak and groan. He spins, jaw going slack as Guglielmo pokes his head through the gap.</p><p>Guglielmo cranes his head to look around the cathedral before casting a quick glance behind and pushing the door open wider. Bianca slips in behind him, hand in hand with her husband. With Francesco’s little brother. Neither of them acknowledge him as they make their way across the floor, coming to a stop in their normal place. Where Lucrezia de Medici will stand. Where they’ll be far too close when the violence commences.</p><p>Francesco steps forward and flinches at the noise of his own footfall, but Guglielmo and Bianca pay him no head. She glances up at him and he looks down at her. Even in their side profiles, he can see the softness. The love.</p><p><em>They’ll be too close</em>, he thinks. <em>They’ll get hurt</em>. He doesn’t think, <em>I am about to tear them apart even if they never set foot in the Duomo again.</em></p><p>Guglielmo reaches up and tucks a strand of her honey blonde hair behind her ear. His smiles widens and her giggles sounds loud enough to be in Francesco’s ear, not across the room.</p><p>Maybe he doesn’t mind if Bianca gets hurt. Maybe he doesn’t mind if he’ll tear their relationship apart. She’s a Medici, after all. But Francesco does care about his brother – more than he cares for his uncle, for the bank, or even for Florence.</p><p>It’s the middle of the night when he wakes in a bed too big for one person and covered by sweat-slick sheets. The sheets are shoved aside in a crumpled mess and his feet hit the floor with a thud. Wine and the clinging vestiges of sleep cause him to stumble to his deck, fingers trembling as he grabs parchment, quill, and ink. <em>What to say, what to say?</em></p><p>His first attempt is an incomprehensible scribble. He tears that section from the parchment and starts again. The second attempt is legible but incoherent. Francesco reaches for another piece of parchment. His quill hovers over the parchment, a fat droplet of ink landing on the clean surface. Blemishes don’t matter, just the words, and yet the storm inside his head refuses to be translated into Italian. A curse flies from his mouth as he slams his fist into the desk, shaking the ink pot and rattling a few loose coins. His eyes wander from the paper to the window and they’re greeted by dancing torchlight on the neighboring building.</p><p>It’s well past calling hours, but Florence is a city that never sleeps. He could go to Guglielmo. Talk to him. Warn him. Except… Not warn him, per se. Not let him know. Probably not. But maybe he could translate his mind if he were speaking it rather than writing it. After all, he’s no poet.</p><p>Francesco dresses in a hurry and tosses a cloak over his shoulders. There’s not even a servant about to stop him in the quiet halls of his uncle’s home. He slips through the big doors and his path is illuminated by torches on the sides of homes and businesses. There’s a chill in the night air but it’s not cold. A winter wind may have shocked his senses and stopped him in his tracks; the blooming spring urges him on, and he reaches the doors of the Palazzo Medici in little time.</p><p>The guard that greets him asks in a brusque voice what his purpose is.</p><p>“To speak with my brother,” he answers. “Guglielmo de Pazzi.”</p><p>Francesco grits his teeth as he waits for the guard’s response. The guard eyes him, nodding after an agonizing moment. “Wait,” he tells Francesco before shutting the door in his face.</p><p>It occurs to him after a few too many seconds staring at the shut door that he should start thinking about what he’ll say. Also, that he should’ve thought about that on his walk here or as he dressed after making the decision to come.</p><p>He’ll say, <em>I’ve come on bank business</em>.</p><p>But how will that keep Guglielmo away?</p><p>No, he’ll say, <em>Its been too long and I miss you, brother. Come to the villa on Sunday</em>.</p><p>Francesco’s brow furrows. He can already imagine the confusion on his brother’s face.</p><p>Then instead, he’ll say, <em>An investor—</em></p><p>Before his mind can finish the excuse, the door opens. His eyes snap up, widening with recognition of the curious face that greets him. The face the doesn’t belong to the apprehensive guard or to his little brother. The face that belongs to Lorenzo.</p><p>“It’s late, Francesco,” he says, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Are you alright?”</p><p>His mouth opens. <em>Yes. No. </em>“I’ve come to see Guglielmo.”</p><p>Lorenzo’s lips quirk. “So I was told, but as I said – it’s late. Guglielmo is asleep, I believe.”</p><p>“Then—Then I’ll go.”</p><p>Lorenzo quickly shakes his head. He reaches through the doorway, placing a heavy hand on Francesco’s shoulder. “There’s no need for that. Come in”—he gives Francesco a little push—“and have some water, at least. Then you can tell me what’s bothering you – if you feel like it.”</p><p>Francesco won’t; he longs for the weight of the blade in his dream, but yet…</p><p>Yet, he lets Lorenzo lead him inside – for a glass of water and a private conversation.</p>
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